Phoenix
by TheFinalEntry
Summary: But his wings were dancing winds rather than blazing fire, and he was reborn not from a grave of colorless ash, but baptized in silver starlight. [One-Shot]


_**Phoenix**_

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Another man might have known better.

When the Colorless King approached him, requesting his immediate audience and an opportunity to properly introduce himself to the First and Silver King, suspicion hadn't been even a passing notion in Weismann's mind. His only thought was that this new King was clearly a bit of an eccentric … and, perhaps a refreshing break from the monotony of existence aboard the _Himmelreich_. After all, the novelty of a floating palace in the sky had rather lost its shimmer upon only the first decade. Now even brief diversions were welcome. (He enjoyed teasing the Lieutenant, claiming that the reason Weismann continued receiving his calls – all of which inevitably turned into well-intended lectures – was simply to stave off boredom. While the Lieutenant was a dear friend, and his scoldings only mildly tiresome at this point, the Silver King was honest enough to admit, to himself at least, that the joke was soured with a small pinch of truth.)

It had been, oh, some 60 odd years since he'd left the world below, by Weismann's reckoning (though he'd stopped keeping track twenty-three years into his exile so his guess might very well have been off) and he'd never touched down since. He knew little of the dealings between the different Kings and cared even less. The world was theirs now to do with as they wished, and he wished them well. And at any rate Weismann did his own part. He _was_ a scientist, after all, and sixty years was a very long time to occupy one's self with only their own thoughts for company. He had the Lieutenant send him all the latest texts and updates in the scientific world, and in return his studies in subjects such as biology, chemistry and engineering (not to mention the Dresden Slate) were extensive, and readily shared with the people. That is, they were shared with the Lieutenant. Weismann was certain his old friend put them to good use.

It was never enough to satisfy the Lieutenant. The greatest advancements in genetics, medicine and technology that Weismann could provide, and it was never enough. Always, his old friend insisted he return to the surface, to stop running. Always, Weismann merely smiled in response.

_You simply don't understand, Lieutenant._ But that was alright. The Silver King wouldn't wish understanding on anyone – certainly not on his oldest and only friend. Let the Lieutenant chide and grumble, for it hardly bothered Weismann and seemed to do the Lieutenant some measure of good to air his grievances and vent his frustrations.

* * *

(_Ringing, that awful ringing in his ears, so loud it drowned the shrill screaming of the bombs in the air, so loud he could feel it like a sharp and tangible thing in his mind. Smoke, bitter on his tongue and rasping, biting, tearing in his lungs. Where was the ringing coming from? Claudia. Claudia where are you? Claudia, talk to me –_

(_Oh. No. No, no Claudia, _please _no. Claudia – _Claudia_! Talk to me, please – anything, say anything …._)

* * *

It was lonely on the _Himmelreich_, to be sure. With naught but the birds and the stars for companions, the life of the Silver King was often so lonely he ached with it. He paced down empty halls alone, read from his extensive library alone, and enjoyed his meager entertainments alone. At night he slipped silently into a bed that felt more akin to a coffin. He did what he could to make his life more bearable – the Lieutenant kept Weismann well supplied with the choicest of foods, and music was Weismann's consistent preference to ward off the swallowing, oppressive silence. And even after all this time, Weismann hadn't quite tired of the truly breathtaking view of Tokyo below – whether blanketed in the soft orange light of sunrise, or with the city lights sparkling like a mirror beneath the crystal stars of the night sky.

The Lieutenant's calls were also a relief, a singular reminder in that vast nothingness of Weismann's life that he was indeed still alive, and not some half-dead shade haunting an unending gray netherworld. Like a small island, a tiny pinprick of hope and relief midst a black, eerily calm ocean that stretched as far as the eye could possibly see. The Lieutenant scolded. He scowled and argued and huffed with frustration, all-in-all treating Weismann rather like a uniquely stubborn and spoilt schoolboy, but his calls were also noise, movement, passion, emotion; Weismann had never missed a single call in their 60 years apart. If Weismann was a shade then what little life he has was second-hand, lent to him briefly by the Lieutenant and relinquished back to him at the end of his calls.

The Lieutenant was old. Unlike Weismann, he would not live forever. When he passed – and that time was creeping up, bleak and inevitable – the Silver King would be truly alone.

* * *

(_Dead. All of them, everybody, dead – __Claudia dead. He should be dead with her, with them. Too. Dead too._

(_He_ _Should have died when the support beams came down, crushing __the__ vertebrae high on his spine, __puncturing his lungs,__ leaving him coughing blood by the mouthful – _I can't feel my legs, I can't … I'm …. Claudia. I'm sorry, I'm sorry … just say something – _He s__hould have died when the fire came, burning him, __eating__ him up, sweltering, popping, blistering – _When will it end? – _chewing__ his __skin__ away until there was nothing left of him but __charred, __raw __meat__, and __then __he healed __all the way__ down to his hair and fingernails__. The smoke had killed him, he thought. Because he couldn't breathe, he couldn't _breathe_, __strangling on __thick __heat and ash and the swollen burning in his __too-tight __lungs, and how __could__ a man __live__ without breath for so many hours? It wasn't right and __it wasn't natural and__ it just needed to _end_._

(_There were a handful of Japanese soldiers off to his __left__. Three had been crushed beyond recognition while another had been consumed by the fire, __saturating the air with_ _the __putrid__ smell of burning flesh. __B__ut one had remained largely in tact, __and his eyes kept returning to that soldier no matter how hard he tried to look away from the mangled sight__. __The__ arms were twisted in an unnatural way, __the__ legs hidden by a fall of debris. His jaw had broken, hanging unnaturally far __and stretching his mouth into a __too-__wide, grotesque smile. Almost as though he were laughing._ Isn't this funny, Adolf?

(_His ears wouldn't stop ringing._)

* * *

So when the Colorless King requested permission to board the _Himmelreich_, Weismann allowed it and was grateful. The Lieutenant must have been very busy, as he hadn't called Weismann to offer his routine updates on life below (and of course to slap Weismann's wrists for negligence), and the quiet had gotten too loud, too heavy, draping over him like a weighted cloak. A break from the loneliness and monotony was most welcome. Not that he was expecting much to come from the meeting – there was a reason, after all, that he had secluded himself in the clouds, and he had no intention of returning to the world and lives of men.

Whatever the Lieutenant had to say about that (… which was, admittedly, no small amount).

Human lives were so tiny. They were like moths, fluttering against the windowpane – darting into view with a mad flurry of soft and delicate wings, flashing and dancing and alive, and then gone just as fast. It was beautiful, true, yet fleeting and unsurprising. In some ways their lives were equally as monotonous – or at the least, equally as predictable – as Weismann's own. They went to school, they developed a career, got married, maybe had a child, then they died. And they worked themselves up over such little things … birthdays and paychecks and rainstorms. They were like children really, the lot of them, and Weismann couldn't help a certain measure of fondness when he considered the people down below.

But then again, like with children, that fondness was usually accompanied with a certain measure of exasperation. New leaders would arise – new _Kings_ would arise, like this Colorless King who was so keen on making Weismann's acquaintance – humanity would find new problems with society to squabble over, new forms of entertainment with which to whittle away at the short amount of time they had. New individuals would become public faces. New excuses to go to war would be found. New victories. New tragedies. Over and over, back and forth, consistent as a swaying pendulum. How many times had Weismann seen it already, and how many times would he see it again before even _he_ managed to find a way to die?

Or before he lost his mind entirely. That was another possibility, he supposed.

* * *

(_Two days? Three? More?_ Is anyone there? I'm still alive – please, don't leave me buried down here_. Buried with Claudia, broken and trapped out of reach. Buried with the laughing soldier. Buried, and so thirsty; __he hadn't had so much as a sip of water in days, for __there was no water here. __There was only__ the smoke, rancid and foul in his __scorched__ throat and his brittle, rasping lungs; __j__ust the silence, broken only by his panting, his dry sobs and his uncontrollable, painful gagging. __T__he darkness __was_ _heavy__,__ and __overwhelm__ed with the_ _stench of death and decay. __He could nearly make out the ghosts and ghouls __hiding in the corners,__ crowd__ing__ the small space, __impassive as they__ watch__ed__ him writhe __helplessly __beneath the __weight of the fallen support beams. Maybe Claudia was among them._

(_The __crumpled __soldier grinned at him, familiar as an old friend. _It's okay, Adolf. It's a joke – it's funny. You should be laughing with us. Why aren't you laughing, Adolf?

(_They were __supposed__ to change the world, Claudia and him. They were going to make it better. What __had __happened? This … this wasn't better. This was destruction, mindless and unhinged; this was death, and h__im__ buried along with the dead. He should be dead with them. __Or maybe he _was_ dead. A dead man, trapped in a living man's body._)

(Whoever you are … _whatever_ you are … just _please_. Let me die.)

* * *

The Lieutenant, bless him, didn't understand. Oh, Weismann remembered quite well how his old friend had raged at him, back during the latest skirmish between the late Red and Blue Kings. It was one of the few times Weismann could recall the Lieutenant growing well and truly angry with him.

"You are a _King_, Weismann," he'd growled, mouth tight and eyes like live coals, "and you have a duty to the people! Tell me, how long do you intend to hide away in the sky, playing the role of the coward? How many innocent lives are you willing to sacrifice before you come down and do what you should have been doing from the start: fighting for a better world. As I recall, I was not alone in stepping up to support my people during the War. You have experienced you losses, Weismann, but we_ all _have. What about those who are still alive to benefit from your brilliance?" His lip curled, resentful. "How much suffering do you deem a worthy price for your own, personal comfort?"

It was easy for the Lieutenant. Weismann wished that matters were so simple in his own case.

Those down below who knew of him called Weismann the Immortal King, but that wasn't strictly true. Or, perhaps is was better to say that this wasn't a truly accurate description of Weismann's power. Immortality, that was merely an unpleasant side effect, not the root cause and concern.

_I am not the Immortal King, Lieutenant_, he'd wanted to explain that day (gently, sadly). _I am the Unchanging_ _King_. Unchanging. Unchangeable. No matter how much he may wish to do so.

He hadn't changed, not since that wretched day the Dresden Slate selected him as the First King, the Silver King, cursing him with the dreadful power of unchangeability and condemning him to a life as a specter; twisting, powerless, caught somewhere between the vicious pull of death to his grave and the vice-like grip of life, refusing to relinquish him. Many people envied him his power, he knew. They would not, if they were aware of the truth.

The unchanging Silver King had been born that week; that awful, endless week in the Laboratory, when the bombs rained down like holy judgment and Adolf K. Weismann had been buried alive with his sister. He had remained unchanged since the night he'd burned, consumed by fire and without a single scar to show for it; unchanged, with the putrid scent of Claudia's decaying body (laying not ten feet away with her arm reaching for him, wrist limp, fingers mangled) coating the back of his throat; unchanged since he'd laid on the floor, pinned like an insect to a board, hope bleeding out of him while life hooked its claws into his chest and refused to let go.

The Silver King had been born of death, despair, destruction. The Unchanging King had been born of war and had since found himself unable to leave the War truly behind.

"You simply don't understand, Lieutenant."

"Weismann, hundreds of thousands of people are dead! _Hundreds_ of _Thousands_. And even among those who survived homes have been ruined, lives destroyed – all that's left is … carnage. Japan is still reeling from the damage Kagutsu's Damocles Down did to the country's topography. You. You could have _done something_ – _anything_ besides waiting it all out in the sky."

Weismann was tempted to ask what it was, exactly, that the Lieutenant wished he would have done, but opted to hold his tongue on the matter. This was messy enough _without_ Weismann actively making matters worse. And at any rate, it wasn't as though his friend was entirely wrong.

The Lieutenant continued. "Do you even care anymore? Why do you do this, Weismann? Why do you refuse to understand? You are a King, and you are a genius. You have a duty to those who are under you."

Weismann smiled lightly at that (he knew better than to provoke the Lieutenant, really – particularly when the man was in such a state – but resisting temptations had never exactly been a talent of his, and he found that his reservoir of self-restraint was beginning to run low). "Ah, but I have none under me, Lieutenant. Don't you remember? I have no Clansmen."

"_Weismann_," the Lieutenant snapped. "This isn't about Clansmen – though if it were, that would _also_ be your own fault. It's about lives. You _cannot_ keep running like this! Humanity doesn't just disappear if you ignore us long enough, nor will your problems …. Weismann. You once told me that the goal you strove for was perfect happiness for all humanity." The Lieutenant's anger cooled a bit, and he peered at his old friend with a mixture of resignation, regret and genuine curiosity. "Whatever happened to you? You were such a good man – a man who was going to change the world. You were so … so full of hope. How did you grow so cold?"

Weismann had only tilted his head and smiled gently again at his old friend – as close to an apology as the old man would ever get on this matter. _I'm sorry it must be this way, Lieutenant. Truly I am._

Time heals all wounds, or so the saying goes. But what of the people who remain unaffected by time? What heals their wounds?

_Oh, Lieutenant. My old, dear friend._ He didn't realize that Weismann could still feel the smoke in his lungs, choking him, suffocating him. The finest wine was laced with the metallic tang of his own blood. Claudia and the Laughing Soldier leered at him every time he closed his eyes, visited him in his dreams – the Laboratory, the bombs, the fire, every night on repeat for the past 60 years.

His ears were, after all this time, still ringing.

The Lieutenant couldn't see the damage that returning to Earth could bring about. How many people could Weismann reluctantly learn to love, only to lose them to death (like Claudia)? The Lieutenant wanted Weismann to make himself vulnerable, to give his heart to the people – or to anyone, really. He failed to realize that whatever the Silver King gave them, they would eventually, inevitably take with them to their graves. He would bury himself in the forms of those he'd loved and lost, piece by piece, until he truly was nothing left but a shell, while the pain of their deaths would be immortalized in him forever. The Unchanging King, always grieving, incapable of moving on.

What became of a man like that? What became of a man, hollowed of everything that made him human, and all that was left behind of him was the hopelessness of War?

An immortal man. A man with the powers of a god. A man with nothing left to live for and nothing to restrain him.

The late Red King had already given them a taste (hundreds of thousands dead, more injured, Japan left devastated), and Weismann didn't want to know the rest. Neither would the Lieutenant, if it were ever allowed to ultimately come to fruition.

At the end of the day, however, the Lieutenant was still a soldier – in some ways he'd changed as little as Weismann had – and the Silver King couldn't help but wonder exactly how the man would react if he knew Weismann's true reasoning for secluding himself up in the sky. Giving up before the battle was even begun, that was not in the Lieutenant's nature. There were times when Weismann wondered if perhaps his friend knew, regardless of the secrecy, and if this was the reason he called Weismann, _Coward._

* * *

(_Hello? Hello – is anyone in there? Help is here, we're going to get you out. Is anyone in there?_

(_Weismann? Are you in there? It's me – Lieutenant Kokujouji. __Are you there Weismann?__ Weismann if you're there, _answer_ me. Please. Say … anything._

(_Weismann! Is that you? You're alive. Oh, thank – you're _alive_! Okay, alright. Just – just stay calm, alright? Help is here, we are _going_ to get you out. I promise. I promise, Weismann, you are going to get out of there alive. Are you alright? You are unharmed?_

(_….Weismann? Wh- What are – W__hy are you _laughing_?_)

* * *

The new Colorless King was going to be disappointed, Weismann knew. Just like the Lieutenant. He led the Colorless King up from the docking bay, pleased with the company after such a long stretch of maddening silence, but quietly hoping that he was not about to wind up on the receiving end of a lecture from a mere child. How old was this boy? Sixteen? Seventeen? Surprisingly young, for the Dresden Slate wasn't typically inclined to elect children – then again, the Colorless King had always been unpredictable. The Wild Card slipped into an otherwise well-ordered, color-coded deck.

The pair of them – the Silver King, with the Colorless King following at his heels – made their way down long, white stretches of hallway, past impressionistic paintings and elegant mahogany doors, down red carpet until they reached Weismann's parlor room, the only place for company that he kept aboard this ship that saw so few visitors. All the while, the Colorless King kept chuckling to himself, disjointed little snickers at some private joke. He sobered somewhat as Weismann poured them both wine (though in the back of his mind, Weismann seemed to recall the Lieutenant mentioning some new age restriction on alcohol? Ah, well ….), but the boy's smile remained. Stretched tight and wide. As though laughing at something Weismann was not privy too.

(_Isn't this funny, __Your Highness__?_)

Weismann settled himself into his seat after the wine was poured, being careful not to accidentally catch on his hair. That would hardly be dignified. A small chuckle rose in his throat at the thought, and he toyed absently with his wineglass.

"So," Weismann said pleasantly, "you came here to tell my you're the new Colorless King?"

And, perhaps, another man might have noticed the fractured look in the child's eye. Another man might have noticed the way his smile was not simply wide, but unhinged and wild, like it had been sliced into his face with a razor blade. Then again, another man probably would have recognized the off-chord notes of hysteria and deprecation in his stifled laughter when Weismann had brought him here.

Weismann did not notice. After so long in isolation anyone new seemed odd to him, so the Silver King barely even bothered to take note of it. At any rate, dark laughter was something he was quite familiar with, and hardly seemed out of place here on the _Himmelreich_.

"Right." The Colorless King's voice was breathy and excited.

"I see," said Weismann. He hoped his next words would not upset the child considerably. "I appreciate you coming all this way to introduce yourself. But I must say, regardless of who or what you are, I'm no longer interested in …." Weismann paused, trying to find the appropriate words. It wouldn't do to rile the new King too badly – that would only bother the Lieutenant.

Luckily, this Colorless King was intuitive enough to infer Weismann's meaning. "What goes on in the world?" he supplied. His smile had only widened at the thought.

Odd. And … somewhat refreshing.

"Right," Weismann agreed easily. "So–"

"Unfortunately for you," the Colorless King interrupted with a mocking bow, "I still do have an interest …"

It was then Weismann noticed, finally, that there was something wrong with his eyes. They were wild, the whites flashing in the low light of the parlor room. His white hair was lit up like a cold halo against the dark backdrop of the windows and the nighttime sky. The smile he wore was predatory, teeth bared and feral and sharp.

His eyes were fogged.

No. Not fogged. That was … what _was_ that?

"… in your eternal _immortality_!"

The fog wore a smile too, just as cracked and unhinged and jagged. The fog had dead, yellow eyes. It was painted in red (painted in blood).

The fog laughed at Weismann as it lunged for him.

Of course it did.

The boy, the Colorless King was standing there before him, his smile triumphant, almost maniacal. And then–

Spinning, everything spinning, round and round. The candles danced, the view from the wall-to-ceiling windows was a blur of twinkling colors, all bleeding into each other. Pain exploded behind Weismann's eyes and his stomach lurched up into his throat, squeezing and nauseous. Everything was quiet – too quiet, more quiet than it should be? A bitter taste rose up in the back of his mouth. His glass slipped … he reached for … for … oh. There. That sound, sharp and sad. What was that? That was the glass breaking, wasn't it? Bother.

The carpet was slippery and dark beneath his fingers (when had he fallen to the floor?) and cool against his cheek. The material was soft. It smelt of lemon-scented detergent and rubber – what an odd combination.

Black spots encroached on the corners of his vision. Spreading. Consuming. Pulling him down into the dizzy, empty darkness.

Was this what it was like to die?

(_Oh? Oh. Hello there, Death. You are rather late, aren't you?_)

His ears finally stopped ringing.

* * *

============= |_K_| =============

* * *

The first thing he became aware of was the wind roaring in his ears, a song of chaos and fear and wonder and confusion and _noise_. Loud. It was so very loud.

_Who – I – What – What is –?_

Hands grappled at the steel floor, shiny and cold beneath his fingertips. It was polished till it gleamed, catching the light of the overhead chandelier and nearly blinding him. Something hard and cold jabbed against chest, pressing painfully against his rib cage and it took him a few disoriented moments to realize that it was the edge of the floor, which opened out into empty sky. It took him another few moments to realize that he was hanging over it, legs dangling in the air. His nails scratched at the smooth surface as he desperately tried to find any kind of purchase. His fingers were long and slender, skin fair, wrists fine-boned.

His hands. His hands? Those were his hands?

But – But, _w__ho? What? Who am – How did I –_

His heart was pounding, nerves electrified and blood racing. His body was flooding with panic even as his mind sluggishly tugged its way through cobwebs and confusion.

Sneakers peddled in the open air, kicking uselessly, desperately at the clouds – _something, please_, _anything_ – while the winds yanked at his thin jacket and tugged on his legs. _Come on, __don't be like that. C__ome play with us…._

His hair (white, short, fine, _when did …?_) whipped about, lashing at his face and eyes. His cheeks smarted, and stinging tears gathered in his eyes. The wind still screamed in his ears, so deafening it was hard to even think.

_Nothing makes sense. What's going on? Why am I – How did I get here?_

_Who am I?_

His heart fluttered wildly, a little canary flashing madly about the cage of his ribs. His blood rushed too cold, then too hot and then too cold again, terror and confusion fogging his mind, and _what is going on? _ A panicked, racing staccato beat at the pulse in his throat. His mouth was open, gasping for breath.

The city below him was so very, very far down.

Two shoes stood before him, shiny and black. Shoes – wide-eyed gaze traveled upward – trousers, coat, fancy shirt, a waterfall of silver hair. Silver hair, silver eyes, skin as cold and fair as alabaster. The man before him was practically a ghost, ethereal, leached of pigment.

_You._

_Don't I know you?_

His heart lurched.

The man was smiling down at him, snake-like. His eyes resembled shattered glass: fragile and fractured, with cracks spider-webbing across the surface, full of sharp slivers to make you bleed.

"Bye bye, now," the man crooned, and kicked him out the window.

His mind flashed white.

He didn't even feel the pain from the blow to his face, because his heart had lurched up his throat and into his mouth, and his blood was roaring so loudly in his ears that it even drowned out the overwhelming howl of the wind. Tears were in his eyes, both from panic and from the wind. His bones were made of lead, and his muscles of water – he couldn't move them. The air was so painfully cold, biting into his sensitive skin like a thousand teeth of ice.

He couldn't even think. His mind was completely blank.

He tried to scream – that seemed like a rational thing to do – but couldn't manage to breathe around the heart in his mouth.

…_. I'm going to die._

_I don't – I don't even know who I am._

And he didn't. Not where he came from, not anyone from his past, not his own name. He couldn't remember even as far back as five minutes. He hadn't the faintest clue what he'd been doing on that – he looked up, eyes wide and stinging – that airship. Why had he been there? Who was that man, the silver man, the one who had thrown him to his death? _Why_ had the man done so … what could he have possibly done to deserve it? What was he doing, why was he here? Why couldn't he just _remember_?

The confusion was almost enough to crowd out the fear pulsing in his veins.

He had parents, surely. He wondered what they would think when … if … they ever discovered that their son (their teenage son? How old was he?) had been thrown from that glossy, elegant airship to splatter across the city below.

_I'm sorry … I'm sorry …._ He bit his lip hard enough to bruise as he choked on a noise that could have been a moan. He couldn't say who he was apologizing to or what he was sorry for, but regret and something that felt almost like guilt pulled sharply in his gut. To the family he couldn't love because he didn't remember, maybe. To friends he might be leaving behind without explanation. _I'm – I …._ I what? I miss you? I cared about you? It wasn't even true, and that was the loneliest, saddest feeling of all.

He was going to die all alone. He was going to die on this cold night without anyone at all, no one to hold his hand and assured him that his life had mattered, not even a stranger to pity him.

…. _Had_ his life mattered?

_I wish you were here._ That was true, at least. He wished that anyone was here. _Please, I don't want to die alone._

He wrapped his arm tightly around himself as he plummeted through the sky.

The reality of the situation settled in his stomach, and he could feel the panic bleeding out of him and leaving an odd, heavy sort of numbness in his bones. The cold began to seep in through his thin jacket, into his bones and frosting over his heart. He could feel himself growing numb, mind still racing too fast to focus on any one thought and heart still pounding, but his muscles falling strangely relaxed.

The tumbling winds tossed him gently to and fro. They were almost playful and they flipped him over and he suddenly found himself watching the city below as he plummeted towards it.

A vast ocean of city lights were spread out beneath him; green and red and turquoise and violet and pink, buttery yellow and flashing gold and sparkling blue-white. Glittering and endless as the stars overhead, watery, flashing like fireworks. The proud, steel glint of skyscrapers weaved through a complex labyrinth of suburbs and markets, and shadows outlined the city in intricate lines of black ink. It was terrifying – (_I don't want to die __alone_) – and yet, it was beautiful too. Magical.

_Oh_.

He swallowed his heart back down to its proper place, though it still battered wildly against his ribs. His breath was short, little white puffs in the dark cold night, fear and grief and apathy mingling with a detached sort of wonder. The air smelled crisp and sweet.

He was falling. Falling down through the clouds, falling like a star that had forsaken the impassive splendor of the heavens for the vibrant mortality of man. An angel, perhaps, who had clipped its own wings. He reached out his trembling hands (long, thin fingers, delicate wrists) and grabbed at the mist of the clouds around him. The mist was cold and wet, tingling against his palms as it streamed through his quivering grasp. He watched as ribbons of silver-blue-white trailed and danced through his fingers.

The moon was full and bright above him, shining on him, dusting his dark jacket in soft light and making the pale skin of his hands glow. When he craned his neck he could see, though the curtain of his short white hair, a million million glittering stars painted across the dark canvas of the sky. They looked close, so close, almost like he could … his hand stretched up, fingers reaching for stardust. The Milky Way was a vibrant, hazy flash of aquamarine across the black and the diamond stars. It was painfully beautiful. He could feel the sight of it clenching tight in his belly.

(So this was death.)

(So this was life.)

He didn't realize that he was crying again. Tears slipped silently from wide eyes, glinting on his lashes. Emotion sang through his blood, exuberance and anguish and joy and panic, and something warm and quiet that he couldn't name. He kept his eyes open as he tumbled through the open, frigid night sky.

People weren't supposed to feel so much at once.

_I don't know who I am_.

And it was cruel, maybe. It was tragic, maybe. He was all alone without even memories to comfort him, this quivering life hanging by a delicate, twisting thread. But it … it didn't _feel _cruel or tragic, not then. The rush of emotion and the cradling, playful sway of the wind was the only life he knew. It was as if he had been born here, now, flying through the sky, baptized in the silver light of the moon and with all the stars of the universe in his eyes. A child of the wind, racing down to meet that noisy, messy, tragic-beautiful-restless city.

So terribly and wonderfully _alive_.

(His heart sighed contentedly, though he did not understand why. He had not been properly alive for such a long, long time.)

And it was fitting, perhaps, that he would fall and land in a small stadium so very like another building those many decades ago (crushed by the bombs of war, scorched by fire and long since torn down). This, however, was no laboratory but rather a simple school gymnasium, tidy and pleasantly cool. The cabinets were filled with sport equipment instead of beakers and chemicals, and bleachers replaced the maze for his lab rats.

The light of the moon streamed in through the hole he'd created in the ceiling; soft, sleepy, gentle. He lay still for a moment, arms and legs splayed out wide where he'd landed – on some sort of tumbling mat, it seemed. The air that had been knocked from his lungs by the fall slowly crept back into him in deep, even breaths. He was a bit dizzy and uncomfortable, a little bruised maybe, but – as near as he could tell – completely unharmed.

Large, dazed eyes blinked absently at the stars through the hole in the roof.

_I'm … alive._

That didn't make sense. He was alive? How could that be? It didn't … that wasn't possible. And yet, here he was, perfectly fine.

Something teased at the corners of his lips, and it took him a few more deep, steady breaths before he realized that it was the beginning of a grin. _I'm alive,_ he thought again, this time in contentment. He laid there, sprawled across the stage and his eyes slipping closed again, basking in the serenity and the silence and the simple satisfaction he felt with the beating of his own heart.

_Bump …. Bump …. Bump …._

Except – wait. It wasn't silent. Not quite.

He tilted his head toward the noise he'd detected, then sat up to get a better view.

There to his right, half-hiding in the safety of the shadows stood a kitten so tiny that, were he to stand by the little thing, it would barely reach his ankle. It was white and soft-looking and yowling in alarm. Her tail was puffed; her back was arched as she spat crossly at him, the quivering of her body causing the bell around her neck to tinkle. She pulled her ears back when he met her eyes.

He smiled gently at her, something warm and pleasant curling in his belly that he distantly recognized as _fondness_. She was so cute, so tiny and fierce, and something in him wanted to laugh out his delight at her sheer tenacity.

"Huh?" he cooed. He slid his hands behind him – dragging the pads of his fingers across the study, rubbery material beneath him, enjoying how smooth it felt – and leaned his weight lazily against the heels of his palms. His snowy-white head tipped to one side. "And who are you?"

The kitten continued to yowl unabated, if anything growing even more upset at the sound of his voice. She ducked further away from him, ears tucking more firmly against her skull. Her eyes were wide and bright as she snarled at him.

He frowned, eyebrows pinching together.

_Scared_, he realized. She was _scared_ of him.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, really. After all, he had fallen from the sky and smashed a hole in the roof (_Like a bomb_, a woman's voice whispered gravely in the back of his mind, so faint and distant that he barely heard her, _like a bomb_, and he should have recognized her voice, shouldn't he?). Now that he looked for it, jagged bits of roofing and splintered beams were scattered across the floor. The hole in the ceiling was lined with sharp edges, the teeth of a gaping mouth.

How close had he come to landing on this sweet little thing? How close had he come to hurting her?

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I must have really frightened you," he murmured. He gave her a smile, bashful and apologetic. "Sorry."

Perhaps it was the way he kept his voice gentle, easy. Perhaps she saw something kind in his expression, or maybe she found his body language open and non-threatening. Perhaps she actually understood his words. Because she paused cautiously, then grew quiet. Her shoulders relaxed a little, her ears came up and she stood there blinking large, liquid eyes at him. The tip of her tail twitched.

His smile grew.

_Hey, there. It's alright_. He pulled himself forward on the tumbling mat, very careful to move slowly and stay relaxed so as not to frighten her again. The soft material of his trousers whispered over the smooth surface of the mat as he moved, until he could drop his legs over the edge and lean forward. He held his hand out to her. Coaxing. _It's alright. I won't hurt you._

(There were no bombs here. There was no fire. There was only a boy.)

The kitten leaned forward to stretch her neck toward him cautiously, hesitant curiosity written in the tight lines of her body. Her tiny pink nose peeked out from the shadows, twitched as she sniffed at the cool and dusty air. Her ears swiveled forward and she blinked eyes that were bright and alert as she timidly padded out from her hiding place among the boxes of sport equipment.

Her white fur shined in the moonlight as the kitten crept from the shadows, her little paws taking one tentative step, then another, then another. Every inch she came was carefully measured and considered, whiskers quivering and tail held straight behind her. Glowing silver and so timid – one wrong move and she would vanish like a dream – she was practically iridescent, a tiny, twinkling star which had tripped and tumbled down from the night sky quite by accident, beautiful and lost and afraid.

A pair of fallen stars, the two of them.

He simply smiled at her, waiting patiently for her, ignoring the strain in the small of his back.

Then she finally reached him, carefully pressing her tiny wet nose against his hand. She sniffed at him, whiskers tickling at his palm and he bit his lower lip to keep from giggling and startling the little thing again. Her eyes – her bi-colored eyes, he could see now, blue on the one side and green on the other – were wide, and sharp with intelligence. They gleamed in the low light.

She sneaked a look up at him, assessing.

Something tight in his belly unknotted. His shoulders relaxed, his heart sighed. He could feel his smile softening.

_Hello there. It's nice to meet you._

The kitten blinked at him slowly, then climbed up into his hand (she was so small that she fit comfortably into his palm), loose and relaxed as she let him lift her into his lap. She nestled down against him, curling comfortably against his stomach. A throaty purr, surprisingly loud and deep, rose up from her as he stroked her back soothingly. He traced the delicate knobs of her spine almost reverently.

_She's so little_, he thought as he brushed his fingertips through her sleek, soft fur. When he held his hand against her ribs, he could feel the steady beat of her small heart. _So trusting and sweet and warm_. She was the very picture of purity and innocence as she curled up into a tight, purring ball on his lap. He played affectionately with her ears, enjoying the delicate, velvet feel of them.

The kitten nuzzled into his touch. He shifted her closer, eyes fluttering closed as he listened to the sound of her contented purring.

And just like that, he made a new friend.

(His first new friend in 60 years.)

He had no way of knowing the trials that awaited him, of course. He had no way of knowing the mysteries he was about to entangle himself in, the battles he would end up caught in, the bonds he would form with the most unlikely of people. He didn't know any of that. All he knew was that he had a friend, now, the only friend he knew. She was warm and fragile and trusting, and she was his. For the time being, that was enough.

And though he didn't know this yet, either, he would never be truly alone ever again.

* * *

============= |_K_| =============

* * *

Several kilometers away a young man lay dying, his head cradled tenderly, desperately in the arms of his crying friend, trying to manage a smile that would ease the anguish assurances that he would be alright, he would, _just hang on!_ His camera lay a few feet away, watchful and cold.

Lurking in their respective bases (a glittering skyscraper and a warm, comfortable bar) the Blue and Red Kings relaxed, completely unaware of the fateful events playing out in the night. One scrawled lazy signatures on yet another bundle of paperwork, sliding his fingers behind his glasses in order to kneed the exhaustion out of blurry eyes. The other chewed on a cigarette as he nursed a cut tumbler of scotch, ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he simply absorbed the conversation swirling around him, loud and excitable voices all trying to talk over each other.

High above the oblivious city a man with long silver hair giggled himself breathless, hugging himself and spinning madly on his heel. Meanwhile, along the northeastern edge of the city a swordsman slept, peaceful in his ignorance. A little, well-loved recording device was set on the bedside table while his blade was laid out beside him within an easy arm's reach.

And it just so happened that, a few minutes past 12:30, a boy named Shiro walked freely out of his school's gymnasium – smiling, relaxed, and eyes bright. He walked arm-in-arm with a girl who scolded him and fussed over the tears in his uniform, and laughed sheepishly as she combed her fingers through the mess of his hair ("Honestly, Shiro-kun, you should take better care of yourself!"). She was his second friend. At his heals trotted his first friend, tail held high and pouncing at his loose shoelaces.

And out there, somewhere, lurking in the shadows of the Tokyo night, a future waited for him.

– End –

* * *

**Author's ****Notes:**

Hmm. Well, I can't say that I'm thrilled with the way this turned out, but I suppose that I can only keep editing it for so long. Thank you for reading! Critique and constructive criticisms are welcome.

Scenes and dialogue pulled from the English dub of episodes 07 ("Key") and 12 ("Adolf K. Weismann").


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